


True Places

by foxxcub



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 18:30:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13036953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/pseuds/foxxcub
Summary: Esca looks down at his bare right ankle, which is warm to the touch. A name is displayed there, permanently, sunken into his skin for all time, written in a tight, jagged handwriting:Marcus Aquila





	True Places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dr_zook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, dr_zook! I was going to give you the Marcus/Esca coffee shop AU you originally requested, but bb soulmates happened instead. I hope you still enjoy my shameless self-indulgence!

_It is not down in any map; true places never are._  
\- Herman Melville

 

 

Esca turns sixteen years old the day his mark comes in. 

It’s early, the sun barely peeking in through the curtains of his bedroom window. He wakes slowly from a dream he doesn’t remember, but it was a happy dream; he smiles into his pillow and stretches with a soft hum. His heart thumps contentedly in his chest, and a little voice in the back of his brain whispers, _You’re whole now._

He runs a hand across his eyes and sits up. Today is his birthday, and for once his mother has promised to make a celebration of it rather than simply present him with a kiss on the cheek and a card holding a few ten dollar bills. His mother had _smiled_ the day they’d made his birthday plans, and that had been a gift in itself. 

Then Esca looks down at his bare right ankle still stretched out across the sheets. The skin is warm to the touch.

Esca’s stomach drops. “Oh, shit,” he whispers, barely able to swallow past the sudden dread lodged in his throat. 

A name is displayed there, permanently, sunken into his skin for all time, written in a tight, jagged handwriting: _Marcus Aquila._

Esca buries his face in his hands and just breathes carefully. In and out, in and out. 

No one should cry on their birthday.

~

Like most kids, Esca learned about his mark when he was very young. But unlike most kids, Esca learned about his mark the day after his father packed up his belongings and left for good.

“Sometimes fate is wrong. The mark isn’t always true,” his mother had said matter-of-factly. Her eyes were red. 

But Esca wanted to believed in the magic of it all: finding your soulmate’s name written on your person in their own handwriting, there for all time to show the world whom you’re meant for. He’d later heard the stories of mind reading between partners, where the connection was so deep they could feel each other’s emotions. 

His mother had never discussed how she’d gotten his father’s name. “Did you love him?” Esca had asked once when he was eleven. 

She’d pulled the sleeve of her sweater down her wrist, over the name _Connor MacCunoval_ that was written in a small, narrow letters. “The mark makes you think...things,” she’d said. 

“Things?”

“The mark puts the idea of love in your head. That’s all it is.”

 _It’ll be different for me_ , Esca thought. _It has to be._ Spending his life in a haze of sadness like his mother was nearly too much to bear.

A year later his mother took a new job in the States, and they had moved to the Midwest when Esca was barely thirteen. Iowa looked nothing like Glasgow, but it was far away from the memory of his father.

He’d met Marcus Aquila that fall, at the start of what Americans called junior high. It had been hard to miss him, being the only fourteen-year-old over six feet tall and so broad in the shoulders it was difficult to believe he’d only been a year older than Esca. He’d played football, had a thousand friends, and probably shaved every morning. Next to Aquila, Esca was just a little kid.

“Watch it, runt,” one of the jocks in Aquila's gang had sneered, shoving Esca into his locker hard enough to make Esca’s head bang against the metal. The rest of the guys had laughed. Aquila had stood at the back, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Screw you,” Esca had growled, which had only made them laugh harder. Aquila had smirked.

“Puppy’s got teeth,” another asshole said in a grating, blunted American accent Esca hated.

And then, Aquila had said a low drawl, “Naw, puppies are cuddly, Placidus.” 

Oh, it wasn’t just the dumb fucking accents Esca hated. 

Then sophomore year came, and Aquila was involved in a serious car accident that had put him in the hospital for several weeks. Rumors began to spread that Aquila would be held back a year.

Esca hadn’t felt sorry for Aquila one bit. 

“It’s a conspiracy,” Esca’s friend Liathan had said. “Think about it: Calleva High gets their star quarterback for an extra year. Of _course_ they’d want to hold that dumbass back.” He’d snorted with an air of someone who didn’t give a shit that they weren’t popular, or had been on the receiving end of Aquila’s gang’s tormenting. Liathan didn’t hate Aquila like Esca did; it was more of a bored irritation.

Esca hadn’t had many friends back home in Glasgow, and here Liathan had so far been the only one to really stick. He knew what it was like to be smaller and skinnier and smarter than the rest, and unlike everyone else at their school, he liked those qualities in Esca.

“I’d be mortified if I had to repeat a grade,” Liathan had continued. “He’ll have to watch his fan club graduate without him. God, what about his mark? Someone’s gonna be sorely disappointed, that’s for sure.”

Esca had thought of his mother and her failed marriage— _the mark isn’t always true._

What a sorry, sad state some poor bastard was about to find themselves in.

~

There isn’t an exact time when one’s mark is expected to show. For some, it comes closer to early adulthood, while others find theirs the moment they slide into puberty. No one knows how to predict a mark of soulmates.

Esca has long thought his would come late. He’s only just recently started to fill out in the shoulders, his body transitioning from skinny to wiry, enough to where the cross country coach has approached him about joining the varsity squad. He actually looks his age now, and the taunts from the douchebag patrol have thinned out.

His mark changes everything. 

He gets through his birthday as best he can, smiling when his mother presents him with a homemade cake and a couple balloons and a gift card to the local athletic store so he can buy new running shoes. He gets through it and doesn’t say a word about the name on his ankle, the name he suddenly _cannot stop thinking about._

“Are you feeling all right?” his mother asks, pressing her hand to his forehand. “You look flushed.”

“Fine, I’m fine,” Esca huffs. He can’t tell her; she’ll only reiterate how utterly fucked he is. 

She narrows her eyes. “Are you planning to go out with Liathan tonight to celebrate?”

“Uh, no. He’s studying. I should probably, too.” He quickly kisses her cheek before going off to hide in his room and do anything but stare at his mark.

Instead he curls up on his bed and runs his fingers over the letters, tracing the sweep of the “M” and the way the last “A” curls at the end. 

_Marcus Aquila_

The last time Esca had spoken to Aquila was two weeks ago; Aquila had still been on his crutches, limping pathetically down the hall as a couple of cheerleaders twittered over him in sympathy. The halls had been crowded, and Aquila had somehow bumped one of his crutches into Esca’s leg. Esca had stumbled slightly, making the cheerleaders giggle.

“Watch it, arsehole,” Esca had hissed. He’d made sure to look Aquila straight in the eyes. 

Aquila had just sort of blinked at him, expressionless, like the big dumb lug that he was. He’d mumbled some sort of apology, even as his groupies insisted Esca was the jerk. Esca had slammed his locker shut and said, “Fuck off,” loud enough for Aquila to hear, and that had been that.

Yet now, the memory starts to change. Aquila’s expression isn’t blank, it’s...hurt. Confused. His shoulders sag a bit under Esca’s glare, and the way he’s putting all his weight on his left leg looks painful. He’s obviously recovering slowly. 

Esca cups both hands over his face. _”Stop it,”_ he says out loud. He won’t pity Aquila because a stupid mark bearing his name commands it. 

Like his mother once said, sometimes fate is wrong.

~

Life goes on, even if it feels like shoving a round peg into a square hole. There’s an awareness of Aquila that wasn’t there before; people say his name more, and there are glimpses of him at the most random moments. Esca grits his teeth and tries not to look.

But he has to, like iron to a magnate. He glances up and finds Aquila standing beside his locker, holding out a book.

“You dropped this,” he says. 

Esca’s chest suddenly burns. He swallows as he snatches the thing back. Their fingers brush, and, horrifyingly, Esca bites back a groan.

 _I’ve never touched you before,_ flits through his mind. 

“You like Gaiman?” Aquila asks. He gestures to the copy of _American Gods_ in Esca’s hand.

“Oh, you read?” Esca replies. There is nothing else to say that will hide the fact that he’s shaking.

Aquila drops his gaze, his mouth twisting to one side. His lips are a little slick-shiny when the light hits them just so.

Esca can’t breathe very well.

“Sorry,” Aquila mumbles. He’s no longer using crutches, but his right leg is still in a walking boot. He folds his ridiculous arms across his chest, as if Esca needs reminding that Aquila is bigger, broader, and stronger than he’ll ever be. It should infuriate him.

He pictures his hands sliding over smooth planes of muscle, tracing the dips and valleys of his body, searching—is his name there, too? Surely it must be, Aquila’s older—

“You don’t have to be a dick all the time, MacCunoval,” Aquila says in a low voice before lumbering away, shoulders swaying in time with his limp. 

“I’m not the dick,” Esca calls, but there’s very little bite to it. Instead, there’s a desperate urge to touch Aquila again.

He slams his locker shut.

~

The rumors about Aquila being held back turn out to be false, but his football career is truly over. No university is going to give scholarships to a quarterback who walks with a limp.

It’s sweet justice, and just what the wanker deserves. 

Except the vindication never comes. Esca sees Aquila sitting in the gym one day during lunch, laying on the bleachers as he throws a football with one hand and stares up at the ceiling, his injured leg stretched out awkwardly. No one else is around.

Esca stands dumbly in the gym doorway. He shouldn’t see this. So what if Aquila’s alone? It’s none of Esca’s concern. 

But a nagging tug of melancholy pulls at the back of his mind, whispering, _He needs you._

Esca goes to the library for study hall. A deep, slow-pulsing ache settles in his chest, and the mark on his ankle prickles hotly. 

He shuts his eyes; there’s a flashback to ninth grade, when Aquila’s gang cornered him in the locker rooms and made him angry enough to “blush all over like a girl”; or tenth grade when one of Aquila’s mates locked Esca in one of the janitorial closets until the assistant principal found him; or the time Aquila walked past Esca showing Liathan his sketchbook from art class and said, “Nice stuff, Puppy.”

Fine, so the last one wasn’t...terrible. And the worst of it hadn’t involved Aquila himself—Esca knows this. But he never _stopped_ his friends from bullying, and that had to count for something. It had to.

A soulmate stuck up for you, protected you. They didn’t stand by and idly let their mates shove you into walls.

Had Aquila’s mark shown up in Esca’s cramped, scrawly handwriting? Did he even care? Esca isn’t even sure Aquila fancies the opposite sex; popular as he is, rumors about Aquila’s sex life are sparse, but there’s always a gaggle of girls around him at any given moment.

A sharp stab of jealousy twists in Esca’s gut. 

The mark isn’t set stone; his mother is proof of that. There isn’t anything demanding Aquila acknowledge his soulmate. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Liathan asks as he takes a seat across from Esca. “You look as if the world’s ended.”

He scrubs both hands over his face. “It’s nothing. D’you have notes from trig? I forgot mine.”

Liathan gives him a long, searching look. “Are you getting sick? Told you you should’ve gotten a flu shot with me last week.”

“Maybe,” Esca mutters. If only Liathan had his own mark. But they never talk about that stuff when it comes to each other.

“Honestly, you’ve been weird for, like, weeks.”

“I’m stressed out about exams coming up. It’s the middle of the term, everyone’s a mess,” Esca says, while in the back of his mind a little voice continues to whisper, _Is Marcus struggling with his grades?_

Fuck. 

~

That night the first dream comes. 

Esca is still in bed, but he’s shirtless and pressed to a warm, naked chest. He breathes in the scent of clean skin, vanilla soap tinged with a masculine edge. There’s nothing strange about nuzzling his face into it. He stretches against a much larger body, solidly built, perfect, _his_. Esca groans low and splays his hand over a smooth plane of muscle, the dip of a hip bone.

His fingertips tingle, like the sensation of touching a hot stove seconds before the heat becomes too much.

“That tickles,” rumbles a deep voice, scratchy with sleep. A soft kiss skims the top of Esca’s head just before wide hands push Esca gently onto his back, into soft sheets and blankets. Esca smiles and opens his eyes.

Marcus is braced above him, his hair disheveled and a couple day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks. He looks impossibly broad, and there are freckles dusted across his shoulders.

“Good morning,” he whispers, and Esca is so dumbstruck by the beauty of him that he doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches up and traces the slope of Marcus’s nose, the lush curve of his mouth. Marcus chuckles and kisses Esca’s palm.

Esca wakes up with his pillow clutched to his chest, the mark on his ankle burning.

~

The school system encourages students to see the on-site trained counselor if they have trouble coping with their mark. Some kids become obsessed with finding their match to the point where grades and college admissions no longer matter; sometimes depression sets in when marks come in late. 

Esca stands outside the door to Dr. Stillman’s office, his heart in his throat. It’s so _stupid_ ; he’s mocked the thought of seeing a therapist to deal with something like this. He’s not abused at home, or doing drugs, or flunking out of school. It’s just his mark that’s...wrong. So very wrong.

He takes a step back from the office and shakes his head. Fuck it, he’s stronger than this—

Dr. Stillman suddenly opens her office door and nearly knocks Esca over.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know anyone was out here!” She narrows her eyes curiously. “It’s Esca, right? Esca MacCunoval?”

He nods, embarrassed at the flush in his cheeks. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you need to see me? Is everything all right?”

“I...I was...I didn’t...that is, I was only wondering…” Esca bites the inside of his lip and mentally swears a blue streak.

Dr. Stillman pats his arm. “Come on in, I was only running to the soda machine, but my Diet Coke addiction can wait. We can talk all you want.” She ushers him toward a cushy chair in front of her obnoxiously large desk. A parade of diplomas line the wall behind her. 

Esca tucks his hands between his knees. This is a terrible mistake.

“So,” Dr. Stillman says in a soothing tone Esca kind of hates, “what’s on your mind, Esca?”

He takes a deep breath. “I, uh...how many kids come to you about...um…” He reaches down and fidgets with the cuff of his jeans, only to realize belatedly that his fingers are curling over his ankle. “You know, the...the mark?”

She blinks for moment as if confused, then slowly nods. “You mean soulmate identification.”

He looks down. “Yeah.”

“Has your mark recently appeared?”

“When I turned sixteen.”

“Is it someone you know?”

Esca scrunches a little lower in his chair. “They go to this school.”

“A close friend?”

He rubs the back of his hand over his mouth. “No.”

She nods again and sits back in her chair. “So you’re conflicted about this person.”

“It’s...complicated.” Esca steals himself and blurts out in a breathless rush, “I just need you to tell me that it doesn’t matter. This thing, this name, all the dreams, it doesn’t have to mean anything if I don’t believe in it, right?”

The corner of Dr. Stillman’s mouth turns down. She tilts her head to one side. “You’re having dreams about this person?”

Esca wants to sink into the floor. “That’s not the point, I only meant—”

“Have you acknowledged this person? Do they bear your name yet, or even know you have theirs?”

“I can’t, you don’t understand, I—” He huffs. This whole thing is so _dumb_. “I don’t actually think he’ll get my name, and if he did, he wouldn’t care.”

She raises an eyebrow. “‘He’?”

Esca holds her gaze, jaw clenched. “Gender is the least of my worries at this point.”

“Why do you think he won’t care if you identify as his soulmate?”

“Because he hates me.” The hazy affection in Dream Marcus’s eyes flashes through his mind as a lead weight settles in his stomach. 

Dr. Stillman folds her hands neatly under her chin and gives Esca a long, searching look. “You know, there’s very little proven scientific research on the nature of our marks,” she says. “Thousands of studies have been done going back to the middle ages, but rarely has anything ever been conclusive. Basically, no two soulmates are alike. The mark defies science. It just...is.” 

“Even if it’s wrong?” 

She shrugs. “Nothing’s ever certain.” She holds her right arm out and pushes the sleeve of her cardigan up. Near the seam of her elbow is a line of beautiful calligraphy that spells out the name _Rylee John_. “I got my mark when I was eighteen. I’m thirty-three now, and I’ve never met Rylee John. I know they're out there, probably, but they've yet to show themselves to me. In the meantime I’ve been with men and women of all different names and moved on.”

Esca swallows. “So you’re...happy? Without knowing?”

She gives him a small smile. “I wouldn’t say that, no. You bear someone’s name for the rest of your life. You don’t need scientific data to tell you there’s some weight to that.” 

He thinks about his mother and her ever-present sadness, how her life might’ve been different if she’d never known Connor MacCunoval. 

“I’m not going to tell you it doesn’t matter, Esca. But I will give you one piece of advice: acknowledge him. Maybe he’s just as scared and confused about all this as you are.”

Esca snorts. “Unlikely.” 

“You mentioned dreams—have you been having them a lot lately?”

“Not really, just...sometimes,” Esca lies. Barely a night goes by that doesn’t feature Marcus in some capacity; it’s always sweet, always Esca being snuggled like they’ve known each other for eons.

Dr. Stillman’s mouth twitches like she’s trying not to laugh. “There’s an unofficial consensus in the psychology field that dreams involving soulmates signify one of the strongest bonds. It’s all conjecture, of course; I’ve also heard empathy can strengthen between a deep bond, but I’ve never seen it in person.”

The very thought of Marcus dreaming about him...it unsettles Esca, makes his heart run a little faster and his skin grow hot. What if they share the same dreams? Was Marcus seeing Esca spread out on a bed, or nestled in the circle of his arms? Did he wake up empty and aching each morning, wishing it was real?

The bell for the end of lunch rings. Esca stands. “Thanks, Dr. Stillman,” he says, too shaken to really say anything else.

“Please, you can call me Addy,” she says. “And let me know how it goes, yeah?”

Esca pauses with his hand on the door knob. “We’ll see,” he says softly, then slips out into the crowded hallway.

~

On Friday Liathan tells him they’re going to a party.

Esca rolls his eyes. “Are you high?”

“No, and that’s the problem. Bergson says he’ll be there and hook me up on the cheap.” Hunter Bergson is a senior stoner whom Liathan tutored once in algebra, and also Liathan’s unofficial weed guy. Most of the time Liathan buys from the college guys at the local university, but the school is fifteen minutes away and Liathan only has so much gas money. 

“I’m not going to a jock party just so you can stock up on weed.”

“Yes, you are. I’m sick of you moping all over the place. You’re gonna go out and get blitzed, and you’re gonna like it, Maccers.” Liathan pokes his finger into Esca’s chest with a very stern look, then leans in closer and says, “Seriously, though, you’re like a fucking mess lately. I think getting out and making fun of the douchebags would do you good.”

Esca grins in spite of himself. “Stealing beer from assholes does kind of sound like fun.”

Liathan slings his arm casually around Esca’s neck. “See? I have all the best ideas,” he says, nuzzling Esca’s cheek.

Esca opens his mouth to snark back, but he’s stopped by a sudden pull in the back of his mind, like a phantom hand cupping his nape. He hears, very plainly, a voice in his head say, _Why?_

Esca ducks out of Liathan’s hold and looks around. The halls are beginning to thin out with only a few minutes left before the final bell for fifth period. No one is paying any attention to them.

And then he spots the back of familiar broad shoulders loping away in an uneven gait, head ducked low.

 _Marcus_.

“You’ve got that look again.”

“What?” Esca realizes belatedly that he’s gone still, every muscle in his body tensed in waiting as he watches Marcus turn and disappear into a classroom at the far end of the hallway.

“Like you’ve got heartburn or something. It’s weird.” Liathan shakes his head. “Definitely need to get you drunk tonight.”

Esca barely hears him. A deep-seated pang of regret blooms in his chest, and the worst of it is, he’s not sure at all whether it’s his or Marcus’s.

~

It isn’t the first time he’s attended a party just to humor Liathan, and normally Esca doesn’t mind. Social statues sort of go out the window the minute alcohol becomes involved; regardless of the host’s popularity, Esca’s never been made to feel unwanted. 

However, Liathan had failed to mention who, exactly, that night’s host would be.

Esca sees the sprawling brick estate with the circle drive, three-car garage, and ornate wrought iron “A” over the heavy, medieval-looking French doors. The house screams old wealth, and there are only a handful of students at their school who come from that kind of money.

“I’m not going in there,” Esca says, his voice catching in his throat. 

Liathan huffs as he opens his driver’s side door. “Look at the size of that place. Aquila won’t even know you’re there.”

Esca can’t decide if that’s a good thing. “You could’ve told me ahead of time where we were going.”

“And let you be a killjoy? C’mon, Maccers, Aquila doesn’t control how you live your life.” He tugs at Esca’s sleeve, and Esca wants to scream, _You have no idea about anything._

“I should...be home writing my paper for world history.”

“You should be in that house having a beer with me,” Liathan says. “I won’t take no for answer. Get your ass out of the car.” 

Esca’s heart is in his throat as they make their way up the driveway and through the front doors. Loud bass thumps through the foyer from an unseen sound system, and from somewhere off to Esca’s right someone yells Liathan’s name.

“Oh, dude, that’s Bergson, be right back.” LIathan neatly weaves his way into the crowd, leaving Esca to fend for himself.

He looks up at the elegant, old-fashioned chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Logically, he should feel resentment at all the money on display; of course Marcus has everything he could ever want. But instead Esca feels a strange emptiness, like a melancholy that’s gone on for so long it no longer has a shape. It wraps around his heart and squeezes, making his breath catch.

Esca thinks, _I have to find him._

He thinks, _No, I shouldn’t even be here._

“Macs!” he hears Liathan call. “Come on out on the deck!”

Esca follows the sound of Liathan’s voice, telling himself he’ll only stay for an hour, tops. The sooner he gets away from Marcus Aquila’s house, the better.

~

An hour later Esca has had more than a couple hits off Bergson’s stash. The buzz shimmering through him is both soothing and exhilarating; he feels his courage coming back in fits and starts. 

He hasn’t laid eyes on Marcus once. Not that he’s been looking. At all. Or listening for someone to say his name.

It’s just a house. No one cares if Esca’s stoned and has a mark on his ankle that he doesn’t believe in. And he doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t. It’s a name, a series of letters, and Marcus Aquila means nothing to him.

And then Esca sees him, standing on the balcony overlooking the living room, where a dance party is in full swing. Marcus is alone, a bottle of water in his hand. He’s wearing a very soft-looking hoodie that looks like it’s seen better days, and he leans against the railing like it’s taking all of his weight. There’s an exhausted slump in his shoulders.

Esca tries to look away, but it’s too late. Marcus’s gaze snags his, and for a moment they stare each other down until Esca swears his heart is going to burrow its way out of his chest. Marcus pushes off the railing and walks toward the stairs.

 _Fuck_ , he can’t do this tonight. Not here. Not in Marcus’s house while he’s high and has no idea what to even say to him. Liathan’s somewhere off smoking and having his stupid existential conversations, and Esca wishes he’d stuck with him instead of wandering to look for...for…

Marcus comes to a stop a few feet away. He’s still wearing his support boot, and his eyes seem very bright and—hopeful?

 _You came_ , Esca hears distantly in the back of his mind, hazy like a dream. 

Marcus’s voice.

He swallows and curls his hands into fists. “Why are you staring at me?” Esca blurts out.

Marcus steps closer. “You were staring at me first,” he says in a low voice that somehow carries over the pounding electronic music.

Esca has to tilt his head back because Marcus is so damn tall, all looming bulk. An image of Marcus wrapped around him, warm and solid and _safe_ , flashes through Esca’s mind, and he sways a little on his feet.

 _I want to tell you everything_ , he thinks helplessly.

Something flickers in Marcus’s eyes, and the next thing Esca knows, he’s moved in close enough to lean down and whisper in Esca’s ear, “Come with me?”

“Why?” Esca says automatically, because his guts are slowly spilling out onto the floor at Marcus’s feet.

Marcus pauses and licks his lower lip. His mouth is very soft and shiny; Esca’s dreamed too many times of kissing it. “Just come with me,” he says again, and holds his hand out.

If he touches Marcus, it’ll all be over. There will be no coming back from it. Esca will be ruined.

He folds his hand into Marcus’s.

~

There’s a second house behind the mansion. Or at least, it feels like a second house; Marcus calls it a pool house, but the place is bigger than Esca’s apartment. Plus there’s no pool around.

Marcus gives him a little crooked smile, and Esca realizes he’s embarrassed. “I just call it that because it sounds snotty to say servants’ quarters. There haven’t servants here in, like, fifty years. Not since my uncle was a kid.” He holds the door open for Esca, like they’re on a fucking date or something. The party has become a dull roar in the background.

Inside there is a tiny kitchen, and off to the left is a living room decked out with all the trappings of a well-off teenage boy: a huge flat screen TV, a beat-up leather couch, a Playstation, a gamer chair. A huge saltwater fish tank lines the back wall. 

“This is all yours?” Esca asks.

“Yeah. I don’t have a room in the main house. Uncle offered me the space when I moved here so I could be alone when I wanted.” Marcus tucks his hands behind his back and nods his head toward the hallway. “My bedroom’s down there, along with the bathroom.”

“You have your own apartment. At seventeen.” Esca states a fact, but he can’t help the swell of jealousy. What he wouldn’t give to have this kind of space to himself.

Again, there’s a familiar flicker in Marcus’s eyes. He reaches one hand out before he stops and pulls back. “No, it’s not—I’m not showing you this to...show off. I just thought we could...could…”

“Could what?” Esca folds his arms across his chest and pretends he’s not thinking about the cozy-looking couch in front of them and how he’s possibly seen that couch in his dreams. 

Marcus blushes. The pink spreads over his cheeks and makes the dusting of freckles across his nose stand out. He’s so beautiful in that moment, Esca can barely breathe. He’s so busy staring at the color creeping down Marcus’s neck, he misses the way he’s being watched just as closely until Marcus says, softly, “You’re high, aren’t you?”

Esca blinks hard and tips his chin up. “That’s none of your business. Everyone here’s wasted in some form or another.”

Marcus dips his head down until there’s barely a handful of inches separating them. All it would take would be Esca going up on tiptoes to let their mouths connect. 

“I can feel it,” Marcus whispers. 

The world tilts slightly beneath Esca as a horrible, gut-wrenching wave of hope grabs hold of him. His marks begins to pulse with heat. He swallows, and Marcus tracks the bob of his throat.

 _I want to taste you_ , he hears in the back of his mind, crystal clear and unmistakable. _I want this to be real._

Esca’s voice cracks slightly as he says in a rush, “Your name is on my ankle.” He closes his eyes and holds his breath. 

An eternity ticks by before he feels cool fingertips skim over his cheek. It’s exactly like every soft, sweet touch from his dreams. 

He hears, “Esca, look at me,” and Esca does, even though he’s terrified.

Marcus’s eyes are very dark, nearly all pupil. Somehow Esca knows his heart is pounding hard and fast; he can feel the rhythm in his own chest. He reaches down and pulls up the hem of his hoodie, giving Esca a view of smooth skin and hard muscle that pulls and ripples with each breath his takes. Esca can’t help the sharp pang of desire, or the sudden overwhelming urge to put his hands on Marcus’s stomach.

Then he sees it, just above Marcus’s hipbone, small, compact, and neat, stark against tanned skin.

_Esca MacCunoval_

“Oh,” Esca breathes. 

“I think my accident delayed it,” Marcus says. “It didn’t appear until after I was up and walking again.”

His car wreck was over six months ago, and Marcus only came back to school in half that time. Which meant…

“We got them together,” Esca says. He finally gives in and reaches two fingers out to trace his name, his own handwriting. 

Marcus sucks in a sharp breath the instant Esca touches his skin. “You haven’t known long?” His voice catches as Esca gets bolder and splays his whole hand over the mark.

“Mine came on my birthday.” He thinks back on all the little moments since then, how Marcus _knew_. “That was three months ago.”

“I didn’t—I wanted to say something, but you never—I know you hate me, and I couldn’t—”

Esca shakes his head. “I don’t hate you.” It’s not just the weed talking; whatever shit those guys Marcus ran with did to him doesn’t matter anymore. _This isn’t a dream._

He slides his hand higher, and Marcus makes a gorgeous little groaning sound. “Those guys aren’t my friends. They never were. It’s all bullshit.” He starts to tremble as Esca’s hand pushes up under his hoodie and over his heart, which is pounding furiously under Esca’s palm.

 _You still hurt me_ , Esca thinks before he can censor himself.

 _I swear I never meant to_ , he hears back.

Esca gives a helpless, manic giggle. “Puppy,” he says, and glances up to meet Marcus’s dark eyes.

Marcus shakes his head. “I’m, uh, not the best at flirting.”

“You’re fucking joking.” 

“No. I remember being in eighth grade and thinking you were so…” _Fierce_ echoes in Esca’s mind, along with a warm burst of affection.

“You...didn’t even have a mark back then,” Esca stutters. Surely this can’t all be real. Marcus Aquila can’t actually be standing here, admitting to having a crush on Esca since he was fourteen. 

_The mark puts the idea of love in your head_ , he hears his mother say. 

Marcus frowns. Slowly, he cups Esca’s cheeks in his big hands, gentle and soothing. Esca all but melts into that one familiar touch.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time,” Marcus says. “I just didn’t know how to get you to let me in.”

“Do you actually like Neil Gaiman?” Esca asks, because it’s better than begging Marcus to stop talking and kiss him.

The smile he gets is a little bashful, a little sloppy. “I love _American Gods_ , it’s only second to _Stardust_ ,” Marcus says, the corner of his thumb bumping up against the edge of Esca’s mouth. He leans down and nuzzles Esca’s nose. “And yes, I do read,” he adds with a low, rumbling chuckle.

“Shut up, I didn’t—you took me by surprise, with what your...your...giant shoulders and...everything…” Esca tries for indignation, but it’s difficult when his hands are on warm skin and he’s being held like something precious. 

Marcus beams like Esca’s said something enlightening. “Does this mean you think I’m hot?”

“No. Not at all.” Too late, a memory of Esca’s favorite dream—the one where Marcus is naked save for a soft pair of boxers—flashes in his mind. He sees the exact moment the image registers with Marcus; his blush deepens again.

“I’ve had dreams, too,” he says, and fuck, Marcus’s voice has suddenly dropped into a silky, sex-drenched timbre that makes Esca bite his lip. “Until my mark, I’d never had a sex dream in my life.”

Esca’s stomach swoops. “S-sex dreams? With me?”

Marcus tilts his head. “What are yours about?”

He’s never stopped to really think about the innocence of his dreams, only that they make him feel safe, cherished, _loved_. In them, Marcus never touches him below the waist, and when he kisses him it’s always unhurried, almost lazy. Sure, Esca wakes up hard from them, but it’s the closest thing he’s had to a romantic encounter, let alone sex. “You...like to cuddle,” Esca finally says.

“Cuddle?”

“Yeah.”

“After we…?”

Now it’s Esca’s turn to flush bright pink. “There’s no ‘after’. Just kissing and, um. Talking.” It sounds so ridiculous said out loud.

Marcus drops his hands, and Esca immediately misses their warmth. “So you’re telling me that we never, uh, do stuff? Ever?”

“What do you want me to say, that they’re completely PG-rated? Fine, yes, for whatever reason, I’ve been destined to dream about you being mostly naked and snuggling me into oblivion.” He pulls his hand away from Marcus’s skin and hugs his arms to his chest. The weed blunts his ability to sound haughty and irritated. “Why does it matter so much to you, anyway?”

He can feel Marcus hold his breath for one long, heady moment. 

Then a flood of images rush through Esca’s mind. Every one of them features Esca, and every one of them is intimately, and explicitly, filthy.

_Esca mouthing at Marcus’s cock, eyes closed and moaning._

_Esca naked and touching himself in front of Marcus._

_Esca riding Marcus hard and crying out for more._

The images themselves are overwhelming, but it’s the heat that comes with them, the desperate need and wanting, that makes Esca stagger back.

“Jesus,” he gasps. 

“Not quite PG,” Marcus says. 

Esca swallows. His whole body is one giant pulse. “You really dreamt that?”

Marcus slowly drags his thumb over Esca’s lower lip. “All the time.” 

“That hardly seems fair. I haven’t even seen you naked.” He means it as a joke, but it comes out breathless and needy-sounding. He ducks away from Marcus’s touch just to give himself some room to breathe; Marcus’s stricken look makes Esca's chest clinch.

_I shouldn’t have shown you that._

Esca shakes his head and laughs weakly. “No, you probably shouldn’t have. I-I don’t even...I wouldn’t know the first thing about…” He shoves a hand through his hair. Fucking great, he’s hard and shaken and high, and none of these things are helping him _not_ looking like a fucking loser in front of his...his…

_God, I don’t even know what to call you._

“Marcus is fine,” Marcus whispers. 

Esca licks his lips. “Marcus,” he says out loud. 

“That wasn’t so bad, right?” Marcus laughs, but Esca can feel his nervousness, an uncertainty that he, too, is making a mess out of this whole thing.

“What will your mates think?” Esca asks. “I’m not exactly your type.”

Marcus shakes his head. “I’ve never had a type.”

“But all those girls—”

“I never did anything with them. It always felt...wrong. Besides, after my accident people sort of treated me like I was, you know, broken. No one wants me like this.” He waves his hand at the boot still strapped around his leg.

“You expect me to believe that? _Everyone_ wants you, you’re perfect.”

He smiles as a familiar loneliness rolls over Esca. “Pretty sure only you think I’m perfect.”

“How is that even possible?” Esca pictures all the cheerleaders and jocks and the rest of Marcus’s popular clan viewing him with pity and disdain. He understands those things being directed at _him_ , Esca, but not at Marcus. He clenches his jaw. “Did they start the rumor about you being held back?”

Marcus shrugs. “I don’t know where that came from. Even if it were true, I don’t think anyone would care. I can’t run a ball anymore, so I’m useless.”

“That’s fucking rubbish,” Esca growls. He’ll beat them all to a bloody pulp with his bare hands. He’ll make them apologize to Marcus’s face for making him feel like he’s less than worthy. 

He’s so consumed by a sudden flare of possessive rage that he’s a little startled when Marcus slides a heavy, solid arm around Esca’s waist and nuzzles Esca’s cheek. 

“You don’t have to kill anyone, babe,” Marcus says, and while the logical, sober part of Esca's brain wants to tell Marcus to never call him _babe_ like that again, the rest of him dissolves into a mess of goo.

“You deserve better,” Esca says, curling his hands into the soft cotton of Marcus’s hoodie. He leans up and presses his nose to the spot behind Marcus’s ear. He kisses him there, a quick, featherlight skim of his mouth. Marcus shivers all over.

_I’m not gonna push you into anything, but if you keep touching me like that…_

Esca presses closer and lets his teeth rake over the edge of Marcus’s jaw. _You can tell me to stop._

Marcus groans. “You said that to me once. In a dream.”

“Then what?” 

“Then you, um. Gave me a blowjob. A really, really good blowjob.” Marcus’s voice sounds shredded. His weight is beginning to sink into Esca, and Esca’s never felt so brave and powerful.

“I’ve never done that,” Esca says. 

“I’ve never had one. In real life, I mean.” 

Esca raises up on his toes to mouth at Marcus’s neck, and the angle is perfect for their hips to connect. “Maybe you should kiss me first?” He rocks into Marcus just enough to experiment. The sensation nearly makes him fall over.

“Fuck,” Marcus groans. “I’m not, uh—if I kiss you, it’s going to be over real quick.”

Esca grins against Marcus's shoulder. “You’re that sensitive?”

“I told you, no one’s ever touched me like— _shit_.” He gasps and bucks into Esca’s palm the second Esca cups his hand over the bulge in Marcus’s jeans. He swears a couple more times, then whimpers, “Esca, c’mon.”

“Couch?” 

_Anywhere, I just want you with me._

They stumble over to the leather couch and land in an ungraceful heap, Marcus’s bulk pressing Esca into the cushions. Marcus pins Esca’s hands above his head, and finally, _finally_ they’re kissing, messy and breathless. Marcus bites at Esca’s lower lip, and he nearly comes from that alone. He arches underneath him, gets one leg hooked around the back of Marcus’s good knee. The sounds Marcus makes are the most gorgeous things Esca has ever heard.

“You feel incredible,” Marcus breathes into Esca’s mouth. “I’d hoped you’d feel like this.”

He desperately wants Marcus’s hoodie off, but he can’t find the words. The most he can do out loud is whine in the back of his throat. Marcus hums and licks at Esca’s throat.

 _You, too_ , he hears right before Marcus skims Esca’s t-shirt off. He pulls his own hoodie off one-handed, and then they’re skin-to-skin. Esca’s fairly certain he’s blushing all the way down to his navel, but it doesn’t matter. The heat radiating from Marcus is enough to get him high again.

He wants to do something for Marcus, live up to all of his filthy dreams. It’s more difficult than Esca thought when he’s so close just from kisses and friction and Marcus’s big hands all over him. 

_I’m going to come_ , he thinks frantically.

Marcus raises up on his elbows. He’s so very _broad_ , with muscles than seem to go on for days; there’s a smattering of hair across his chest, and his nipples are large and dark. Esca’s dick jerks in his jeans.

“D’you want me to…?” Marcus asks. His mouth is obscene, all wet and full. 

Esca doesn’t think, he just gasps, “Please.”

Marcus’s hands immediately go to Esca’s fly, and the second Esca’s cock is free they both groan. 

“God, maybe I should suck you instead,” Marcus says.

A spurt of precome drips from the head, and Esca can’t hold on. “Marcus…”

“Yeah, okay.” Marcus pushes his fingers through the wetness, barely pinching the tip. Esca yells and comes all over Marcus’s chest in one long, hot pulse. 

Marcus watches the come slide down his skin. “Oh,” he murmurs, and a second later he tears into his own jeans to get a hand on himself. Esca’s too worn out to truly appreciate the sight of Marcus pulling at his huge cock—and he is big, bigger than Esca’s ever imagined in his darkest dreams. He wonders in his post-orgasm haze what that huge dick would feel like inside him; his arse clenches reflexively right as Marcus comes on a loud shout, covering Esca’s stomach.

They’re both disgusting when it’s all over, but Esca couldn’t care less. Marcus shifts them to where they’re curled together, chest to chest, legs tangled over each other. He threads his fingers with Esca’s and kisses the back of Esca’s hand.

“Next time,” he pants, “I’ll jerk off beforehand. Then we can go all night.”

Esca snorts. His free hand starts to roam down Marcus’s torso, seeking his name. “You’re awfully presumptuous.”

“I know you’ve never come that hard in your life, so. Yeah, I guess I am,” Marcus drawls, bussing a kiss over the bridge of Esca’s nose. He adds, softer, "You'll stay, right? When the party's over?"

"Don’t your parents care if you have...overnight guests?”

Marcus goes very quiet. He squeezes Esca’s hand tighter. “My parents died when I was a kid. It’s always just been me and my uncle.”

Esca flushes and tries to hide his face in the crook of Marcus’s neck. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“There’s no reason you would. I don’t talk about it at school.” 

“Where they, uh. Marked for each other?”

“Oh, definitely. One time my mom told me that the day she got my dad’s name was one of the happiest days of her life.” He sweeps two fingers down Esca’s bare spine. “I sort of always hoped my mark would do the same for me.”

 _You’re so lucky_ , Esca thinks.

Marcus cups the back of Esca’s head. “Why?”

Esca sighs. “My father left when I was very young. It devastated my mum, and because of her, I grew up thinking the mark wasn’t real.”

“She told you that?”

He burrows closer to Marcus and doesn’t reply. 

They’re quiet for a while; Esca listens to Marcus’s breathing grow calm while Marcus strokes his hand up and down Esca’s back. The weed is slowly wearing off, and the drop from the high always makes Esca sleepy.

He’s barely drifted off when Marcus whispers, “I hope you never doubt yourself again.”

Esca feels the little pricks of heat from his mark as Marcus’s heart thuds beneath his hand. “She was wrong. I know that now.”

Marcus kisses his cheek. _I’m glad it was you._

Esca doesn’t really know where they go from here, or how the rest of Marcus’s friends will react to the news of Marcus’s mark. He doesn’t even know what to tell Liathan after tonight. 

“I’ll help you figure it out,” Marcus says drowsily. “We’ll help each other out, ‘cause that’s what soulmates do.”

Esca smiles. 


End file.
